


bruises like your fingerprints

by sithsecrets



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bruises, F/M, Regret, Rough Sex, Self-Hatred, din leaves a mark on reader but it's done completely by accident and without malicious intent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 03:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30082440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sithsecrets/pseuds/sithsecrets
Summary: din leaves mark on you, and it nearly kills him.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Comments: 11
Kudos: 124





	bruises like your fingerprints

Din catches sight of the bruise as you’re putting away a freshly cleaned dish, arms stretched over your head to reach the cabinet. It’s a pretty ugly mark, the purple-red splotch spanning over the width of your upper arm and curving around where he can’t quite see. Din wonders where you got it, wonders why it looks almost like a… like a hand. Like _his_ hand.

The world spins and then falls away. For one brief, fleeting moment, the bruise on your arm and the knowledge that he put it there is all that exists in this world. Din has no idea how he makes it up to the cockpit without hurting himself, but he does, and when he finally comes to in the pilot’s chair, he prays he wasn’t rude as he left. Shame and horror wash over him like a tide of lava, burning his insides, crawling up his throat like bile. He can picture it now, how it all happened. You were on top of him in his bunk last night, face scrunched up in blissful agony as you came on his cock, and Din grabbed you… He grabbed you hard, apparently, harder than he knew, and now you have a _mark_ on you. You let him have you like that, you put your body and your heart and your safety in his hands, and what does Din do? He batters you like a fucking animal, hurts you like you don’t mean a fucking thing to him. You must hate him, you have to, because he sure does hate himself. Maker, how can he ever—

“Din?”

Your voice is like a cup of ice water down his back.

“Yeah?” he coughs, jarred from his thoughts. You’re there at the door when he turns around, a plate of food in one hand, a cup in the other.

Right, dinner. That’s what the two of you had been doing before he lost his mind.

Din must have had his wits about him when he darted off, because you offer him his food like nothing’s wrong. He wants to say he’s sorry, wants to fall at your feet and beg your forgiveness, but you’re just standing there talking to him with your pretty face and sweet voice, fiddling with the fastening of his cloak… Din just doesn’t have the heart to do it, not now. And so he lets you go away, deciding then and there that you’re too precious to be so mistreated by him.

* * *

Mercy of mercies, Din’s next hunt comes soon, taking him away from you and away from his thoughts. The quarry’s an easy catch, but he’s grateful for the break, grateful for the distance from what he’s done…

You and the baby are waiting for him when he comes back with the man he was looking for, all smiles after the carbonite system’s been engaged. Din couldn’t be happier to see the two of you, heart heavy after days apart. The Child’s laugh and your bright eyes cheer him in no time, though, and you even make all of Din’s favorites for dinner, talking with the baby as you cook. Maker, he loves you…

In all honesty, the existence of your bruise slips his mind for a while there, the thought pushed down the joy of a good evening. It’s not until after the baby’s in bed that he thinks of it again, not until you come up into the cockpit barefoot and dressed for bed, a vision in a tattered shirt and damp hair.

“Hey,” you say softly, coming over where Din’s positioned himself in the pilot’s seat. He finds himself reaching for you immediately, drawing you in with one outstretched hand.

“Hey,” he says back, giving you a squeeze. You look at him for a moment, chewing on the inside of your cheek, and Din already knows what you’re after.

“I’m going to go get in bed,” you tell him, shy like you always are when you ask him to lie down with you. “You wanna come relax for a while? Tell me about the hunt?”

Din takes a look at your bare thighs, at the way your shirt stretches over your chest, and he wants to say yes on impulse. But then his eyes graze that awful, purple-pink bruise on your arm, and it’s like there’s a rock in his stomach.

“I’m tired, _mesh’la_ ,” he tells you, reading between the lines of your words, “but I’ll come sit with you until you fall asleep, if you want.”

You say you understand without a second’s hesitation, smiling prettily and saying that you hope he gets some sleep two. The both of you go down the ladder together, and Din’s heart clenches when he sees that you’ve already made up your bed on the floor. To think that you were going to let him fuck you again, and all after he hurt you so badly…

It’s like this for three or four more days. You’ll come to Din all shy and soft, saying that you really did miss him while he was gone, asking if he wants to try and get some rest, words thick with subtext. Din turns you down every time, offering up some flimsy excuse, and it pains him to watch your face fall. The third time, he’s pretty sure you went down to the hull and cried. Still, he just… can’t. Not when he knows what happened the last time the two of you had sex.

Another night’s come, and, like clockwork, you’re climbing up the cockpit. Din can hear your feet on the bars, he tracks how many steps you take until you get to the door…

“Baby’s asleep,” is the first thing you say to him, coming to settle at his side. You seem tense, arms crossed over your chest, face pinched. Din finds himself possessed with the urge to kiss the crease in between your eyebrows until it’s gone.

“Good,” he says, “that’s good.”

Conversation lapses between the both of you, dread heavy in Din’s stomach. You’re upset, that much is obvious, but he has no idea how to ask you about how you’re feeling, can’t make his mouth form the right words. Thankfully, you seem intent on forcing his hand.

“Din,” you say, breaking the silence, “can I ask you a question?”

He nods.

“Did I… Did I do something? To upset you, I mean.”

You’re trying to be casual, trying to downplay the pain you’re feeling, but Din can see it. He can see it in the way you shy away from him, how you won’t come close or look him right in the eye. Any other time, you’d be in his lap or in the jump seat, carefree as you ask him about what he’s been up to or tell him about what happened while he was away. More than anything, Din would like to put the whole thing behind him, just tell you that he was having a rough couple of days and make it all up to you in every way he knows how, but he can’t just get over it. The idea of touching you again makes his stomach drop because if he touches you, he runs the risk of hurting you again, and Din’s not sure he could bear that sort of thing a second time.

“No,” he says to you, falling all over himself to reassure you, “not at all. You’ve been great, really.”

You nod at that, unmoved. “Okay, but did you meet someone, or something? I don’t— You’ve just been distant lately, and I don’t understand. I thought everything was good. Between me and you, I mean.”

“No,” Din declares, “I didn’t— There’s no one, I promise. And things are good between me us. I would tell you if they weren’t.”

This earns him another nod, but still, the look on your face never changes. If anything, you look even more hurt and insecure than you did when you first came into the cockpit.

“It’s okay if you don’t want me anymore,” you murmur, eyes cast downward. Something about the slump of your shoulders and the thickness of your voice tells Din that you’re trying not to cry. He’s overwhelmed with the sudden, intense urge to impale himself. “I know you don’t belong to me or whatever, and I get it if you’re tired of always having the same person—”

Din doesn’t mean to interrupt you, but he can’t take this anymore. “I hurt you, _mesh’la,_ the last time we had sex. I put my hands on you and left a mark, and I hate myself for it, and that’s why I haven’t taken you up on any of your offers these past few days.”

You look stricken. “Din, what—? Do you mean my arm?”

Din’s heart sinks— of course you’d noticed. How could you have _not_ noticed something as ugly as what he did to you?

“I’m so sorry, _cyar’ika._ I can’t believe I lost control like that. I have no idea what came over me, but when I saw the bruise on you—”

Now it’s your turn to interrupt Din, though your voice is gentle and insistent as you do so. “It didn’t hurt, Din, not when you did it and not after. I knew you were holding on to me, but I didn’t notice anything on me until the next day. And it’s not like I haven’t left marks on you either, so seriously, it’s alright.”

You’re speaking of the hickeys you leave on Din’s next and chest sometimes, bitemarks that stain him purple and red for days. He likes them in the moment and after, especially when he’s alone and wants to be reminded of you. But that’s all—

“Different,” Din says, shaking his head, “that’s way different. I let you do that to me, and I like it. I manhandled you like a fucking animal, and I don’t deserve to touch you ever again because of that. You should be treated with respect, especially when you’re having sex.”

“Din,” you press, stepping closer to him now, “ _please._ Believe me when I say that I don’t care about the bruise. It doesn’t hurt, it never did hurt, and it’s not going to ever hurt. You didn’t do it on purpose, and I don’t feel disrespected or mistreated, or whatever else you’re picturing in your head. What really hurt was having you reject me. I thought there was something wrong with me.”

The way your voice becomes small and quiet makes Din’s heart clench, and it’s then that he decides that he can’t do this anymore.

“You forgive me?” he asks, desperate. “For everything, I mean.”

The tension in your body ebbs, posture relaxing, and the quirk of your smile seems almost tired.

“There’s nothing to forgive you for,” you say slowly, fingers resting on the side of his neck, “but if it’ll make you stop hating yourself, then yes, Din, I forgive you.”

Just to hear you say it is a relief, but nothing soothes his anxiety more than the way you drop right in his lap like you’ve been doing it all your life.

“Now _please_ ,” you groan, arms threaded around his neck, “come lie down with me while the baby’s asleep. I’ve missed you, and I’m ready to quit missing you before you have to go away again.”

You really are beautiful, Din decides, and he really is lucky to have you.

“Fine,” he concedes, “but only because you’re asking so nicely.”

It’s a tease and you know it, grumbling about how insufferable he is even as you fiddle with his cape. You’re thinking about how you’re going to undress him, Din’s sure, familiar with the look in your eyes after all these days together. He’s more than fine with being objectified once in a while.

“If you really hated me, you wouldn’t have come up here begging for me to come crawl in bed with you, _cyar’ika_.”

“I’ll take my forgiveness back, Djarin,” you warn, mock-offended, “mark my words.”

“Let me kiss you first,” Din says, knowing you can’t resist that, “and then you can decide if you’re still angry with me.”


End file.
